In the May issue Special Project, critics from various generations each highlight a notable Korean picture book. This feature introduces a children’s picture book about the misunderstandings that occur in communication, a book that explains complex emotions that are often difficult for children to grasp, and a title that addresses challenging situations that can be hard for a child to understand.

The 20s Perspective – Lee Sollim, Cultural Critic

“In the moments spent looking into the miniature house of the grass bug…”

Grass Bug Picture Dream
Written and Illustrated by Seo Hyun,
Sakyejul, 2024

Grass Bug Picture Dream begins with a single small hole. Peering through the circular cutout in the center of the cover, one can see a grass bug sipping steaming tea. As the pages turn, an unexpected miniature world is revealed. The bug’s home is as small as a fingernail, and the objects inside are even smaller. Facing the first illustration, which occupies only a tiny fraction of the page, the reader naturally leans forward. Instead of magnifying this small world, the book draws the reader in by depicting it exactly as it is: tiny and intimate.

In this unique new release from Seo Hyun, an author who gained international acclaim after winning the Bologna Ragazzi Award in the Comics category, a green grass bug with long antennae dreams of becoming a human every day. A human body with only four limbs feels strange and uncomfortable. In one dream, while in human form, the character encounters its insect self inside a flowerpot. Within this gradually unfolding structure of overlapping dreams, distinguishing between what is real and what is a dream is not particularly important. As dreamlike and ethereal scenes unfold, the narrator exists simultaneously as both an insect and a human.

We often say that we must see the world more broadly and clearly. This book, however, moves in the opposite direction. It quietly focuses on the seemingly useless conversations between a tiny grass bug, which would easily go unnoticed in the human world, and his friend, a dung beetle. This approach reflects an affectionate gaze toward small and insignificant lives, much like the traditional Korean painting Chochungdo (Insects and Flowers) by Shin Saimdang, which served as the book’s inspiration. The author explains that the story began while looking closely at a tiny house attached to a blade of grass in Chochungdo and imagining the creature living inside.

This static sensibility is also evident in the texture of the illustrations. Images completed with thin, delicate lines and softly settled colors make the act of turning each page a careful gesture. The scenes unfold peacefully, almost slowly. As a result, the reader does not just “see” the pictures but “peers into” them.

The back cover of Grass Bug Picture Dream features a small hole identical to the one at the beginning of the book. This time, we see the back of the grass bug walking quietly with an umbrella. His posture is the same as the human in the dream who claimed to have dreamed of becoming a bug. After passing through this mysterious repetition, one begins to reconsider which side of the story was the actual dream. While peering into the tiny house of the grass bug, the boundary between reality and dream quietly sways.

The 30s Perspective – Maeng Junhyuk, Publishing Editor

“Communication, Misunderstanding, and Adorable Power”

Iparapa Yamooyamoo
Written and Illustrated by Lee Gee-Eun, Sakyejul, 2020

I have actually known the title of this book for a long time. Rather than knowing the title itself, the image of the massive, furry monster on the cover was so deeply etched into my mind that I remember passing by bookshelves wondering, “What on earth is this book about?” However, I had no clue what the words meant until now, when I finally discovered the secret. I never imagined it would mean something like that.

(If you do not yet know the meaning of the title, I encourage you to open the book before reading the rest of this review. The delightful thrill of realizing the meaning for the first time is something my writing can never replace.)

Our daily lives are a continuous series of minor misunderstandings. We might just put a period at the end of a message, yet the other person assumes we are deeply angry. Countless office workers waste energy analyzing the microscopic differences in temperature between various ways of saying “Yes,” while others spend their commute home writing tragic novels in their heads after seeing a manager’s expressionless face. In reality, that person might have just failed to get a job they wanted, missed out on a lottery win, or simply had indigestion from a heavy lunch. This exhausting cycle of communication—where we jump to conclusions about others’ intentions and preemptively build defensive walls—is frustrating, even when we know it is inevitable.

So, what exactly does that strange title, “Iparapa Yamooyamoo,” mean?

The furry creature on the cover is a giant being that suddenly appears in a village where tiny marshmallows live. The very first thing this monster shouts at the trembling marshmallows is:

“Iparapa Yamooyamoo!”

The marshmallows instantly misunderstand this booming roar as a terrifying declaration of war, believing the monster is shouting “Yum-yum!” and threatening to eat them all up. However, the truth is both anti-climactic and pitiful. The monster, suffering from a severe cavity, was simply crying out for help in a lisping voice. What sounded like a threat was actually the monster saying “My teeth hurt so, so much,” which in Korean sounds remarkably similar to the title, “Iparapa Yamooyamoo.” The highlight of this book is the scene where the marshmallows, realizing the monster’s true situation, lay down their weapons and huddle together to treat the cavity. The black furball crying over a rotten tooth is adorable, but the white marshmallows are even cuter. They go from trembling with skewers to save their lives to suddenly transforming into reliable little dentists. Perhaps the ultimate weapon that overcomes tangled misunderstandings in an instant is none other than “cuteness.” In the face of such fatal cuteness, any defensive wall becomes completely useless.

So, if your heart ever feels heavy because of someone’s blunt tone or unreadable expression, think of this furry monster. Perhaps that person is not trying to attack you, but is inwardly shouting “Iparapa Yamooyamoo” while secretly suffering from their own version of a toothache, such as credit card bills or the pressure of meeting performance goals. While we can never perfectly translate the hidden circumstances of others, if we tear down our high defensive walls just a little and take a look, we will find that the world has a much cuter side than we might think.

The 40s Perspective – Kim Mihyang, Publishing Critic

What Does It Mean to Hate?
Written by Lee Sang-kyo, Illustrated by
Bamco, Misegi, 2026

How can everything in the world be to our liking? Just as night follows day, where there are things we love, there are bound to be things we hate. Yet, for a long time, we have handled the emotion of “hate” poorly. Especially for children, we have demanded that they endure, refine, and sometimes even hide it.

What Does It Mean to Hate? raises questions from that very point. What is this feeling of “hate,” and how should we understand and express it? Lee Sang-kyo’s writing unfolds specific scenes of the discomfort that arises within friendships and the emotions that pile up when left unspoken. This book does not avoid the emotional hesitation children often face but addresses it head-on. Bamco’s illustrations deliver this message intuitively. From faces boiling with frustration and cowering figures frozen in hesitation to the eventual moment of shouting “No!”, the shifts in emotion are visualized through exaggerated forms and colors. This evokes a familiar emotional texture not only for children but also for adult readers in Korea who have often been preoccupied with suppressing negative feelings. In particular, the comic-style panel layout allows readers to naturally understand the process of emotions accumulating and finally bursting forth over time.

The most interesting aspect of this work is that it treats “hate” not as something to be corrected, but as a starting point for understanding. The feeling of hate is not a simple rejection; it is a signal to recognize what makes us uncomfortable. The book demonstrates that instead of suppressing or exploding with emotion, the process of explaining and communicating those feelings is actually another way to maintain a healthy relationship.

A particularly striking part is the scene where the word for hate, “싫다”, is broken down into its individual letters. The consonant “ㅅ” evokes words like “to live” (살아가다) and “to think” (생각하다). The bottom consonant “ㄹ” flows like a stream, and “ㅎ” expands into the image of the radiant sun. Through this process of deconstructing and re-examining the language itself, the emotion is transformed from a mere reaction into an object of deep contemplation.

The process in this book where “hate” eventually leads to “love” (사랑하다) can be understood in this same context. It is not a simple reversal of emotion, but a transformation that occurs through the process of re-examining our feelings through thought. As we look into what we hate and why, and as we unspool those feelings into language, “hate” gradually changes its shape. What began as discomfort and rejection becomes, the moment we understand its reason, a sense that protects us. Furthermore, it becomes a passage through which we can understand others.

For this reason, the transformation shown in this book is not a story about eliminating “hate.” Rather, it shows that when an emotion is sufficiently contemplated, it can lead to other forms of understanding and empathy. “Hate” is not an emotion that disappears; it is an emotion that expands into new meanings through the process of understanding.

This is precisely why the book will resonate with international readers. It does not stop at merely explaining emotions. By deconstructing and reconstructing the Korean writing system (Hangeul) to reflect on emotional shifts, the book reveals a unique sensibility inherent to the Korean language. At the same time, by encouraging reflection on self-understanding and the boundaries of relationships through the universal emotion of “hate,” it draws out an empathy that transcends cultural differences.

The virtue of Korean picture books lies exactly at this intersection: starting from the most mundane emotions of daily life and expanding them into matters of language and contemplation. While What Does It Mean to Hate? unfolds this process in the language of a child, it leaves behind questions that remain profoundly valid even for adult readers.

The 50s Perspective – Jang Dong Seok, Literary Critic

Something Strange
Written and Illustrated by Koo Sam-Young,
Tteuindol Kids, 2025

There is a child. The child is currently at a funeral hall. Their father has passed away. Upon turning the front cover, the title page reveals a portrait of a young man draped in black ribbon. Anyone of a certain age would grasp the situation instantly, but the child does not yet understand what this means. As the child bows alongside their mother to guests who have come to pay their respects, they simply think, “This is strange.” It is just strange that all these adults, whom the child has never met, speak as if they know “me” so well. The strange occurrences continue. Every single adult looks “terribly sad.” Unable to fathom why everyone is acting this way, the child is lost, not knowing what to say or what expression to wear.

People hold onto the child and weep, yet no tears come to the child at all. Not knowing the source of the adults’ grief, the child has nothing to say except that everything is “strange.” The child wishes the adults would stop crying, but of course, things do not go their way. For a moment, the child wonders, “Should I be crying too?” but the tears simply do not fall. A thought flickers by: “Am I doing something wrong?” Soon, a feeling rushes in that perhaps it is not the people who are strange, but “Am I the one who is strange?” The child wishes it were all a dream or a lie, but it remains the undeniable reality.

After a period of time that feels like a dream or a lie, the child encounters their friend, Yeon-woo, in an alleyway. After staring at “me” for a moment, Yeon-woo says nothing and simply gives a tight hug. Only then does the child burst into tears. They finally begin to experience what sadness truly is and what their father’s absence actually means. However, Yeon-woo’s embrace does not stop at acknowledging grief or marking the void left behind. It is a deep consolation and, in a way, a filling of that void. Sadness never gives a warning before it arrives. Ultimately, the way to endure all the sorrows of life can only be found through those who meet our eyes and look at us from our own perspective.

Something Strange by Koo Sam-young is a picture book that honestly captures the unfamiliar emotions a child feels at their father’s funeral. To the child, everything is simply bizarre from the way strangers seem to know them to the sight of everyone weeping. “Why am I the only one not crying?” “What kind of face should I make?” The child remains bewildered, unable to grasp the grief of the adults. Something Strange is also the author’s own story, reflecting her experience of losing her mother at a young age. While the content of the book is moving, the author’s note is particularly heartwarming: “When someone beside you seems to be going through a very hard time, there are moments when you don’t know what to say. In those times, please just hold them quietly. Holding their hand firmly or patting their back gently is also good. Quiet warmth seeps deep into the heart. I create stories hoping that such emotional resonance will reach someone.” This debut makes us look forward to the author’s next work with great anticipation.

Summary

Lee Sollim: Quietly rediscovering the world through a lowered perspective.

Maeng Junhyuk: The Adorable Power of Overcoming Misunderstandings

Kim Mihyang: Korean picture books that start from the most mundane emotions of daily life and expand them into matters of language and contemplation, resonating on a global scale

Jang Dong Seok: If only we could be someone who meets another at their eye level to comfort their grief…

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Written by Lee Sollim (Publishing Editor)

As an editor, she contemplates books that will stand the test of time, while as a critic, she keeps a keen eye on new releases that demand to be read in the here and now. She is also a reader who dreams of a day where she can step aside from professional concerns to simply read to her heart’s content, secretly hoping to one day find herself accidentally locked inside a library.

Written by Maeng Junhyuk (Book Editor)

Rather than aiming to craft a polished review or a perfect introduction, my true hope is to accurately convey the ‘code’ shared by myself and the ‘us’ out there somewhere. As a South Korean reader in my thirties who loves literature, I seek tocarefully give voice to a part of that sensibility.

Written by Mihyang Kim (Book Critic·Essayist, IT Service Planner)

She worked as a publishing editor for thirteen years, spending three years on books and ten years planning and editing magazines. She is the author of the essay Mother Said She Was Not Happy, and co-authored Key Words of the Korean Publishing Industry 2010-2019, What is Film?, and Goods Caution. Having served as a Creative Director at a tech company, she is currently designing, interpreting, and recording the world as a service planner and storyteller.

Written by Jang Dong Seok (Book Critic)

He is a dedicated reader and writer. Captivated by the vast and profound world of literature, he spends every spare moment reading and contemplating how books resonate with our society. He is currently striving to transform books, the infinite source of all content, into diverse cultural formats. His published works include The Living Library, The Rebirth of Forbidden Books, The Birth of Different Thoughts, The Romance of the Three Kingdoms: A Story Renewed After a Thousand Years, and Meeting World Classics for the First Time: A Guide for Teens.